


And Now His Watch Has Ended...

by I_Reflect_The_Sun



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), VIXX
Genre: Based off of season 4 episode 9 The watchers on the wall, Battle, Blood, Brother of the Nights Watch Jung Taekwoon | Leo, Brother of the Nights Watch Kim Wonshik | Ravi, Brother of the Nights Watch Lee Hongbin, Brother of the Nights Watch Lee Jihoon | Woozi, Crying, Established Relationship, Game of Thrones AU, Heartbreak, Hongbin is a flower and we must protect him, Hongbin is high born, Jon snow Wonshik and Jihoon are pretty much just cameos and serve to drive the plot, Jung Taekwoon | Leo was a slave, LOTS of violence, Lots of Leo being scared and worried for Hongbin, M/M, Pain, Violence, angry Jihoon, entirely self indulgent, he is also from Bravos, i cried while writing, lots of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 06:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14586510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Reflect_The_Sun/pseuds/I_Reflect_The_Sun
Summary: My life was nothing before you came into it, my prince. I am so sorry that my loyalty and honor have condemned us-" He doesn’t finish, familiar lips crashing to his, teeth clacking together in a hard kiss, like it can swallow his words and rip them apart, rip the idea of what he is saying apart, but not even the taste of his love on his tongue will stop him this time. He pulls the other back for a brief second, a meer moment, rushing through the rest of his words. "-have condemned us to a painful death. You deserve none of it. You are an angel in Westeros, standing in my arms, and I am sorry I have condemned you."~~~~~~~In other words: That Game of Thrones angst oneshot no one asked for but that I provided. Enjoy at your own risk. Sorry for any mistakes.





	And Now His Watch Has Ended...

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, this story contains: Graphic depictions of violence, gore and death, worry, spoilers for Game of Thrones, and occasional spelling mistakes. Read at your own risk.

"Did you remember to sharpen your arrows?", Hongbin whispers against his neck, the noise muffled from the proximity, although his sense of touch isn't. He can feel every brush of those lips against his skin, slightly wet from the others nervous habit of licking them, shifting and brushing with every syllable, whispering the same question for the third time in a row. With little to talk about, he can't blame the younger for it, nor for the worry in his tone, nor the arms so tight around his ribs. He can't blame his sweet Hongbin for anything.

"Yes, every last one. Sharp enough to split leather," he murmurs against the other males long brown hair, tied back from his face in soft waves, outlined in firelight. "Sharp enough to split a hare. Clean too, they should cut deep, and really hurt." The tenseness in the younger males shoulders falters just a little more, they are dragged down slowly and the strength that was there to keep those broad shoulders tight is now tightening around his ribs.

"Your sword is sharpened, right?", he asks in return, needing his own comfort in this dark moment, in these dark times.

"Yes, sharp enough to rid a man of his hand and cut his skin by just resting on it," the other confirms, licking his lips just a little, pressing ever closer.

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" A nod, soft brown hair brushing his cheeks, a soft puff of breath, and then another, and another. A reminder that his sweet angel is still alive, is still kicking and still fighting for his life in a world drenched in tragedy and death. His question is answered with another question, one that is whispered, so low it is almost drowned by the crackle of flames and the soft shuffle of Maester Aemon just feet above them. He is trying to figure out how to save them all, while Hongbin simply wants to save them both.

"We really aren't running?", the other murmurs, and even if his voice is tiny, to hide those traitorous words, he can practically feel the unshed tears that crowd it and his sweet boys tongue. 

"No, we aren't. I am not."

"Then I won't either. Life is nothing without you, Taekwoon hyung," he hears, the others head being drawn back just to press their foreheads together, let their noses bump, two sets of black eyes shining in the torchlight and meeting again. They each blink, once, twice, and then close at the third, just pressing closer, but they can't get any closer, they physically can't.

"My life was nothing before you came into it, my prince. I am so sorry that my loyalty and honor have condemned us-" He doesn’t finish, familiar lips crashing to his, teeth clacking together in a hard kiss, like it can swallow his words and rip them apart, rip the idea of what he is saying apart, but not even the taste of his love on his tongue will stop him this time. He pulls the other back for a brief second, a mere moment, rushing through the rest of his words. "-have condemned us to a painful death. You deserve none of it. You are an angel in Westeros, standing in my arms, and I am sorry I have condemned you." Then their lips are together again, softer, but still rough, like they are trying to steal the last bits of time they have with one another right there and then.

Fingers cup cheeks and move hair back, away from eyes and off foreheads, carding through the softness while the others arms hold him still tighter around his ribs, til he has to pull away with a soft gasp, and more kisses are stolen, along lips and cheeks and noses, over jaws and ears and foreheads, everywhere their lips can reach.

"You have not condemned me, sweet boy. You gave my life purpose, a reason to keep going, someone to live for and the hope that we could make a difference where we are needed. We won't die-- not tomorrow, not overmorrow, not a dozen days from now. Promise me. Promise me you will fight for us, for the wall and our brothers, for the ones who gave you a home and me a free life." Kisses along his nose, a watery smile, there is nothing more said between them for a long while, but the soft hum that Taekwoon gives is enough. He neither lies nor tells the truth, but it soothes the bo before him, and that is enough.

A face returns to his shoulder, the crook of his neck, and they stand like that, the fire illuminating soft brown strands once more, his fingers rubbing over the other males back.

"Can we call this a nightmare? I pray it is just a nightmare."

"If it is a nightmare, then what a beautiful nightmare it has been."

They part soon, a soft kiss exchanged, and as they turn form one another, Taekwoon knows that will both be dead by the next night, long before the sun peaks over the sky and illuminates the dead in Castle Black. He finds tears on his cheeks as he walks away, falling down and splattering silently on the floor boards.

At least they won't be dead by this morning.

◾◼⬛◼◾ 

"Notch!", commander Allister shouts, his voice deep and loud, yet still, he has to time them just right so that the roar of the wind this high up doesn’t sweep them away and out of earshot. At least the wildlings can't hear them, so far up in the sky, seven hundred feet of solid ice between them, but still, he knows it won't be enough. The gate isn't blocked with ice and bolders, isn't frozen for the winter and left as thick as the rest of the wall, thirty feet deep, fourty at posts. One hundred and two men to guard it, guard the whole stretch across the North, a home that isn't home anymore, not with all this upheaval, the screams of the night brushing his skin and swimming down to his bones, through blood and muscle and sinew. There isn't much too him. There is even less to Hongbin, who stands thirteen feet to his left.

He notches his arrow, and watches as so many untrained boys, young and old, draw their strings as well, the sounds in unison. They tell him how little chance they have, and when their commander barks about how he never said to do as much, his own eyes wander back to his sweet brunette, who loosens the string of his bow and looks over at him dejectedly. He messed up, and what's worse is Taekwoon didn't.

He isn't ready. None of them are. Maybe ten have lived long enough to see war and fight in it, a dozen who really know how to fight, what it entails. Maybe a dozen like him, and eighty like the boy to his left, lacking the experience to even differentiate what it means to notch and draw an arrow. They all know what it means to loose one, though, and they all at least have fair aim, if a little shaky. Aim is nothing now, though, they simply need to rain a flaming hell down on those who intend to breach their walls and eat the bodies of their fallen, eat himself and Hongbin. It's what the stories tell, and he intends to use that terror and disgust to help him fight.

They need to kill, and he is more than willing, both for his brothers and for the one who gives him strength in such times. If he must die, let him at least make someone pay, anyone at all, any living person who choses to steal their lives. They all have it coming. They deserve it. 

Fuck them all.

"Loose!", their Allister booms, loud and clear, and Taekwoon does as he is told, the string sliding from his fingers so beautifully to fly into the pitch darkness of night, a blazing trail of shifting yellow and orange in the night, no longer flying but falling to rain hell on those who wish for his death. Another sound of arrows to their bows is ordered in a mere millisecond, his fingers doing as they are commanded, notch, draw, loose, reload, over and over into the night. 

The bellows of giants and their mammoths alike pierce the night, the sound making him shiver.

"Pay them no mind," he hears in that beautiful voice, to loud and not loud enough, so close he could walk over right now and hold the boy in his arms, but he can't, because he has to draw his string again, he has to shoot another arrow and protect their wall. 

"You're doing so well," he calls to the other, forcing his soft voice to carry the short distance between them, knowing that the others arms must be burning by now, knowing that many arms are starting to burn from the weight of the strings they pull back. His don't, they are accustomed to long hours shooting bows, holding swords, training men and boys and felons alike.

Their arrows paint the sky, fall like hail, sheet after sheet of sparse arrows falling on far too many men and women, burning the ice and, occasionally, piercing flesh to let someone scream in agony. They can't hear it. That is truly a blessing, because many could not handle the sound, himself included. A dear is one thing, a sparing match another, but this is in a whole other world to him, to them all, the sight of men falling and bursting into flames, of them trying to climb the seven-hundred feet to the top, but lots will not make it. They will fall, slam to the ground and break bones or spines, and if they don’t fall by the half way point, then they will be smashed to the ground with arrows and barrels, left to free fall until death brings them into her icy arms.

Then, there is a new light, not the flames of fire licking at the forest in front of him, announcing the arrival of the invaders, but behind him, flames flaring just a little too bright and distracting him. His flaming arrow falls slack, almost brushing the ice as he looks back to find the entrance to Castle Black in flames, people smashing through it and already fighting those on the ground, claiming the lives of those who have far less experience than any others. Their lives are ripped from their hands, and as he watches, two more sets of arrows are loosed, sent to rain their terror on the world and rill the night with more deadly flames. 

He lifts his bow, angles the arrow with steady breaths. /Just like killing a deer/. Up a little, and then down, just slightly, six inches to the left, and then another two, to compensate for distance and the screaming wind. Flames work their way down the arrows shaft slowly, closer to his fingers until he looses an arrow, towards a man crouching on the roof of their barn, his own arrows flying and hitting their marks. The arrow goes, quickly, falls to its destination, and while he doesn’t hit the humans head, he hits his back. At least he thinks-- it's rather difficult to tell from so high up, but he can hope that he has saved at least one person, if not by killing than by distracting. 

Back to the other side. Notch, draw, loose, reload, over and over, his fingers shaking with the effort until they numb in the cold and do as they are told once more, without any biting complaints or whispers of sparks flying up them, but only so long can go by like this, and he is stopped by something he prayed he would never hear. 

"--Arnie, Hongbin, Gren, Norman, come now, grab your swords, you are needed," Allister shouts, and his heart falls, smashes to the ground in a thousand pieces and he stops as he is, still reloading, his eyes on his sweet angel and his big eyes. No, he can't go down and fight. No now, not ever, and even if he has to, it's not supposed to be without him by the others side. There is nothing he can do as Hongbin looses one last arrow, a final flaming testimate to his existence, and then he is setting the bow down, his eyes the size of saucers and dark as ink, fearing his demise. In a stupid fit of fear at the loss of the one he loves so dearly, his bow falls out of his fingers for an instant, clatters to the ground as he scampers quickly over to the boy.

"You're going to be okay, I promise," he whispers, rushed hands cupping the boys cheeks gently, those big eyes still on him, and he decides that he doesn’t care who sees. Let them call him what they wish, he doesn’t care about anything but kissing Hongbin's forehead just a couple more times, whispering how he will be okay. Then he steps back on shaky legs, the world seemingly not caring for two poor boys as he grabs his bow once more, offers the brunette a tiny smile, and returns to his duties as an archer, feeling a brief brush of warmth along his shoulders as the male passes. 

It's his goodbye, because not even Hongbin is naïve enough to believe he will survive the night.

Tears spot his vision, pull at the edges of his lashes until the only thing allowing him to load and shoot is the flames at the ends of each little arrow, lighting up a world spotty with salt water. Soon the tears dry up, the few that have fallen freezing solid on his lashes and cheeks until he has the brief chance to wipe them away, and then its back to his arrows, following the commands thrown into the raging wind like his life depends on it. It does, but his own really doesn’t matter. All that matters is Hongbin's, and he can do little to aid the male at the moment other than pray to the gods that he will be sent down to fight soon as well.

That doesn’t occur for far too long, Taekwoon is left shooting arrow after arrow for way too long, no word coming from the other side of the wall, the screeching of the wind picking up to a pitch so high he feels like he is deaf, no longer following the commands but shooting as much as he can as quickly as he can. No one seems to care what their lieutenant commander is saying, apart from those manning the barrels, arrows flying out in sporadic bursts and trailing flames, falling hundreds of feet to try and hit whatever they can. 

He, like almost their entire array of archers, gets lost in shooting, so when someone walks up behind him to take his coat in hand and pull him back, a choked screech comes from his lips, loud and high pitched until words are spit into his ears. It's a disturbing sensation, and the words that come with it are just as much so. 

"You're needed on the ground. Allister is wpunded. Come on now," the male spits, and he lets loose one last arrow before he drops his bow, running towards the lift and past Jon, who seems to have regained much of the control over the archers. As himself and a half dozen others run downstairs, there is a terrible, splintering crack, and the shattering of wood, tiny particles raining down on them and sticking to the black of his hair. Past them flies a beam, twice his own height and as thick as a tree, and out it goes to land in the battle below, to crush someone, hopefully not one of his brothers. 

The rattle of the lift moving downwards isn't fast enough for him, his sword already drawn and at the ready, glinting in the fading light at the top of the wall, it's blade seemingly dancing in flames. He doesn’t care how much fire the sword carries in its metal, though, all he cares about is the skin he can split with its blade, and the people he can fight who intend to take their bodies and not even give them the honor of being burned. It's strange they chose to burn in a place so cold, but he would rather that than Braavos blood be spilled to fill some beastly mans stomach, to drip off of someones evil grin and stain his clothing. He would rather that then blood of the nights watch stain the snow and someones dirty sausage fingers.

There is another crack, this time a familiar one as the lift reaches its stop, and before the door is even opened, he is hopping over the metal bars, feet smacking to wood scattered in snow, splinters falling from his clothing and to the ground. He isn't used to it, and at one point he slips on his own feet, the timing utterly terrible as someone, a Wildling, runs up in front of him to try and take off his head, or his hand-- really anything. It's not a successful attempt on their part, their sword falling too late, his own already up to defend himself and produce a clang and then a screech as metal slides along metal. From his vantage point (on the fucking ground) he has a perfect chance to incapacitate the male, and takes it, his foot flying up to kick right where no man wants to ever be hit, and earning a pained groan, the other falling to his knees. 

Perfect.

His sword rams through the mans chest, just below his sternum and then through the spine, rendering him incapacitated until he kicks the other off, sending him falling to the ground and to a painful time bleeding out on the freezing snow. His feet are back under him in a mere moment, sword glimmering red for a different reason now as he continues his decent, the few others with him following and knocking those on the stairs off. They find themselves busy clearing it for the moment and protecting the ones on top of the wall, struggling to keep the advances on their North gate back. It's not easy to fight giants on fucking Mammoths, and those up so high definitely don’t need to worry about wildlings clawing at their backs and slitting their throats. 

No, that’s his problem, and he fully intends to face it without reservations. The square, where himself and Hongbin spent so many countless days and nights training whining boys and hardened rapists in the ways of combat, where Hongbin trained horses and he skinned game to feed them all, is coated in a slush of red, melting snow, mixing around his feet into a vaguely warm mixture that has surely turned his sweet brunette to nausea. If he can't handle a skinned rabbit or the mercy killing of a poor old horse, he certainly can't handle the stink of fire and blood and sweat hanging so heavily over the square. Through the slush and the stink, there is battle, blood on every inch of ground, splattering the wooden walls of cabins and the gates that are meant to save them all, the clang of swords and screams of pain heavy in the night, something that he could only compare to the birth of a child in the night. High pained wails and blood. 

This is no birth though, this is battle, and as he struggles through the red mush at his feet, he finds himself meeting swords and swipes for his head with parries and ducks, metal meeting metal over and over until someone falls. Thankfully, the fallen do not include himself, and he lives another second to find his brunette prince and confirm he still lives. In all honestly, he doesn’t think he could die not knowing Hongbin's fate, whether he lives or not, he could not die without saying proper farewells. 

By the time he spots the males broad shoulders and soft hair in the night, he has received his first wound, a nick to his left arm that leaves blood to trickle out and soil his coat, and there is blood splattered over his face and hair, coating his sword and his hands. His sweet angel stands two dozen or more feet in front of him, his sword up and ready to fight someone almost twice his size, with hands large enough to crush a skull and an evil grin on his lips. The bald male thinks he has got Hongbin, but there is one thing that can be counted on—that Taekwoon will die before he lets that happen. He doesn’t have to though, because he has the upper hand, very briefly, seeing as neither male know that he is present, and he uses this to his advantage, running up behind the huge male and shoving his sword in right below his ribs, right where it belongs. A gurgle of blood that he can't see, and the man is on the ground, dying, his sword kicked from his fingers by Hongbin, and then they look at one another.

The younger male looks like hell, blood running down the side of his face and off his chin from a narrow cut across his forehead, those eyes of his watching him and showing just how fearful he is in this moment, how scared he has been the whole time. His hair is as blood splattered as Taekwoon's own, tangled and a little lopsided on one side where it appears to have been chopped off. 

"You're here."

"Yes."

"We are going to die tonight."

"Than at least I die by your side."

No more words are shared before there is a bellow and Taekwoon is rolling away, scrambling over the stones and hot red while his brunette prince deals with the blow meant for his back, his own sword quick to smack the newcomer in the back of his neck and kill him.

"Don’t leave me."

"Never," he whispers, coming up to stand shoulder to shoulder with the male, and the extreme tenseness in the others shoulders seems to melt away, his grip shifting to a more natural one as they begin to work as one, the same as in any training they have ever done. Hongbin parries, he stabs, or vice versa, swinging between their backs getting pressed together and their shoulders touching with their movements, not looking at one another yet needing that presence to truly exist, to truly stand up and have any chance against the swarming men and women whose flashing steal intends to kill them. The archers in the skies help and harm, mis-fired shots hitting fellow wildlings while two well trained archers shoot people dead through their eyes or mouths, shattering teeth and bones alike to fly out across the ground. 

Both sides are growing worse for the ware as the battle continues to rage, the smell of smoking skin dancing into his nose as torches fall and brothers are thrown against them, or wildlings set them alight in the flames, their burn no longer voluntary but forced.

If they live the night and into the grey dawn of morning, then they will have to wish all the bodies farewell and them set them aflame. Burn them, burn them all. Burn them to dust and ash and soot. Let their watch end, finally, and let their long night in the sky begin and become a beautiful one, or let their wretched existence end in flames that lead them nowhere, boil their blood in their veins until there is nothing left to the rock hard people of ice beyond the wall.

Those from beyond the wall seem to be harder to kill than the few nights watch still present, their bodies with little meat other than muscle to cut, cheekbones jutting and hands thin yet hard, but even with such hardness to them, their bodies eventually come apart. Without a word between the two of them, himself and Hongbin, they plan a new strategy, one taking the brunt of the attacks and the other heading to the weakest and easiest spot they can think of, hands and feet, chopping them off quickly and leaving individuals defenseless before their bodies spill ever more blood to the ground.

"Bin, Taek, we need you," someone screeches behind them, one of the boys he helped train maybe a year ago, probably less, his hands shaking with the weight of a sword to tall for his frame, but it has done damage, so he finds a small amount of respect for the other. Flapping hands bring them both forwards, following the small band of about three to the south gate, to the guttural noises and clang of metal. It scares them both, and even if it isn't the smart choice, they take one another's hands, fingers shaking from fatigue and fear, his muscles burning like they are made of acid and the fire that claims the lives of people on the other side of the wall. They come closer, and the noise gets louder, enough to make Hongbin jump and screech softly, squeezing his hand as he is pulled forwards.

If only he hadn't brought him along, then maybe the other would have lived, even if he wouldn’t have.

Inside the little tunnel, as thick as the wall itself, the noise of clanging metal is deafening, far too loud and prevalent to be ignored, and he finds himself standing in front of Hongbin as though to shield him from the noise, but it bounces off of the ice in every direction, so the action does nothing. Still, it makes the both if them feel better, especially at the sight of such a monstrous person outside the gate, hitting at the bars with hands as big as his whole torso and a hundred times as strong as any normal mans. 

"I love you, I love you so much," he says, his hand releasing Hongbin's and pulling his head close to whisper the words against his ear, right against his skin, his lips trembling slightly.

"I love you too. I love you too the moons and back," the other male says, voice much louder, enough to attract at least one look, from a sweet man named Wonshik, his black hair swishing as he offers them a small smile. It's an unexpected acceptance from the male, but that’s just fine by him, in fact, it's comforting. In times of war, in desperate times, no one cares who you love as long as you can help one another live.

Another crash, loud and ringing through his ears, making everyone present jump, and the tiny male from before jumps, his skinny frame bumping into the wall, yet his sword stays up.

Jihoon. That’s his name, Lee Jihoon, the tiny recruit who was arrested for theft and learned all manner if weapons in a short time, the one who became a ranger despite his stature. His anger was explosive, and maybe that’s why he looks so ready to stab the creature trying to shatter their gate, why its no surprise when he hefts that huge toward and stabs it forwards, into the creatures fist.

The noise that comes from the creatures lips is unholy, and as the remaining four individuals line up to fight against it, the gate creaks on his hinges as a thousand pounds or more slam against four inch bars of solid steel, rattling the entire structure on its hinges and beginning to bend the metal. Jihoon, stupid, young, naïve Jihoon doesn’t back off, he stabs that long sword through the bars again as the creature comes forwards once more, earning a screech before the metal is broken, shattered into broken bars. Tiny Jihoon is thrown to the wind, his sword left embedded in the creatures side as the boy hits the wall and falls like a rag doll, unconscious and bleeding, one leg twisted in the wrong direction. Whether he is breathing or not, no one knows, and at this point, none if them care. They can't. There is no time to care.

There is metal everywhere, stuck in the walls and scattered across the floor in ragged pieces, a few flying past the little line and straight out of the tiny tunnel. Wonshik and himself step forwards, swords held in defensive stances as the creature moves inside slowly, obviously hindered by the sword in its side, yet not stopped by it.

A great bellow greets them in the seconds before that hand sweeps at them, just slow enough for himself and Wonshik to drag one another down, two swords slashing at the back of its hand as best they can, but it does little more than scrape along flesh and bone, another hand swinging out to hit them, but this one isn't so slow. His current partner is stolen from his feet, being lifted off the ground and taken in both hands while that sword tries its best to hit the beasts face, and it does a fair job before bones crack, and screams come out, the sword falling from the males hand. At some point, Hongbin ran around the great creature, when he doesn't know, but now he is slashing at the creatures calves as best he can, balanced blows and timed swings doing little to help poor Wonshik as the life is finally crushed out of him, blood falling from his lips and nose until his corpse is discarded as easily as Jihoon's tiny one was. Both poor males are broken, and its so sad. 

A great groan comes from the creature as himself and Hongbin hack at opposite legs, a spurt if hot red coming from the back of the one the younger is working on after a perfect hit, the giant falling to his knees, but the result is far from ideal. Hongbin is hit by the spurt of blood, red soaking his body and sending him skittering back in an instant, his clumsy feet tripping over the mix without Taekwoon at his side to stabilize him, and that makes a similar spray of red paint the ground once the other falls.

Through his sternum, a ragged piece of metal, coated in blood as the boy he loves so dearly is gripped by deaths cold hands, his screams of pain so great that even the one who caused them has to turn to him and acknowledge it, the sword forgotten by him in the struggle to hold in the liquid of life, arms crossing around the thick metal to get in the way of the red. 

It does little to stop it, the liquid pooling and turning the ice to steam with its heat, but Taekwoon could care less about the ice when his sweet angel is crying so hard, blood and snow streaked across that smooths skin, all the way across the tunnel, past a grunting ogre fighting a final half dead brother of the night. With tears in his own hands, he scrambles to do something, reckless and angry as his sword hits the creatures back again and again before he is grabbed by his leg, gripped by it and thrown into his fellow watcher, but not without his sword dragging across the side of the creatures neck. More red, more heat and steam, and as he goes flying and then tumbling, he finds he can't care that he has defended Castle Black. 

He failed.

The only thing to rip him out of his head is the pain that shoots up from his hand, and then his shoulder as limbs fall limp and that sword, the only one still held by anyone, slices through his skin, too painful to be anything that he could survive. The person he is tangled with doesn't move, doesn’t budge in the slightest for a moment as he cries quietly for his love and for the pain in his hand, and then for the stump of his hand. It's gone, and soon he will die from it.

How sad, that he survived almost a whole night, yet died by a sword he helped sharpen.

It's a few seconds, maybe ten or twelve, before he realizes their invader is dead, bled out across their tunnel floor, and beyond the creature he can see Hongbin, wheezing and broken, still struggling to keep himself alive for another moment.

If he could stand, he would walk over, but his knee crumples before he can even crouch, so he has to crawl across the bloody ground, but that’s okay. It's agonizing, the world stuck in a haze of white hot pain and icy red, his elbows giving out at his sweet brunettes side for a moment. "I'm right here, don’t worry," he whispers, the cries of war beyond the wall a fading roar, his one hand reaching out to brush hair from the boys face.

"You're not okay, how can I not worry," the other whispers, removing shaking fingers to try and touch him, letting them rub along his side and lower back, frail but present.

"I'll be fine, my prince. I just need to be here for you, okay?" He lifts himself onto his elbows, probably looking like Hell, but that’s not what makes him so sick. His sweet Hongbin, broken, bleeding, slicked in blood traced through with tears, looking up at him with those big doe eyes like he hung the stars and drew the rivers and streams of the world. "I just need to see you, and I'm okay." His fingers move up, rub at the red over one of Hongbin's cheeks, and he sighs, his lungs stuttering, blinking a few times and looking up at him again, that same adoration there as has always been, even through pain and fear.

"Don’t leave me, please," the younger breathes, death on his lips, and even as his own blood mixes with snow and the other males, he nods, his cheek falling to rest on Hongbin's chest.

"Never. I'll never leave. /Never/."

"You painted the skies for me, you brought the smells of sea and salt and air, you filled my life with song and beauty. Thank you. Gods, thank you hyung, my brave boy from Braavos. I'm sorry I couldn’t protect you."

"I failed."

"You did nothing of the sort."

Stuttering breaths begin to shallow out, and his one hand reaches out, struggles to grip the hand on his side, take it into his shaking fingers and kiss the back, tears already in his eyes.

"You brought me flowers and knowledge, the wonders of the written world and the songs for which I sang, the earth and the sun and the moons. You brought me ice and snow and safety. Thank you, and I'm sorry I could not love you longer," he whispers, the last of those words dying on his tongue.

"Don’t leave."

"Never." And then he is gone, the fingers against his lips falling still and limp, his own tears falling faster, breaths shaking and lips pressing kisses to bloody skin again and again between words. "Don’t leave me first. I need you. Please, please, please." It is too late, the love of his life has fallen to the cold hold of death, filled his heart with pain greater than any he has ever felt, and as he hears the roars of war fade a little more, he gives a high pitched wail, one long one, and anguished cry before he sags and holds those fingers tighter.

"Take me with you."

A pause, drawing close to his final breaths, his final heart beats.

"And so his watch has ended."

Despite the pain that statement brings him, despite the fact that the words burn his tongue the way he expects dragon fire would, he finds himself whispering them, because he prefers that, if they must die, his sweet Hongbin go first and he be the one to wish him off. The other could never handle seeing him die, it would break his sweet spirit and his mind would die before his body did. It's better this way, better that Taekwoon can be the first to wish the boy off to the stars, let him stand with his own gods or the ones he brought with him to Braavos and hear the final goodbye.

Oh, how much they went through together. Tears, pain, nights spent holding onto one another and taking care of eachother in desperate times.

Taekwoon remembers when he first came from Braavos, a scared, abused boy without the keys to his shackles or even the privilege of a name-- the hidden slaves in his part if the city held no names, nothing more than numbers and occasionally a letter if you were lucky. His mother didnt even try to name him what she wished, she simply wanted him around, and in that way he truly was a slave, even if they were illegal. He had no way out, and no one to help him. On the ship over once he had been sold, he couldn’t even look at the water, knowing that if he fell his shackles would drown him, but the smell of the ocean was soothing, it always had been. When they touched ground, his security was almost totally gone, but it was still in his clothes, on tanned skin and in the hair on his head, held in every fiber of his being.

He didn't know he could like a smell more than the sea until he met Hongbin.

Once across the sea, he expected more of the same-- spending his days worked to the bone and his nights being used and abused by the elite of the city who preferred the company of young men to the company of women, his skinny body shoved into the confines of a brothel that smelled of sex. That was far from the case, there was no whip to his back nor bruising fingers in the night, there was just the most beautiful little boy he had ever met, maybe two or three years his junior, with sweet little cheeks and a wide smile that stole his vision if he wasn’t careful (he often wasn't, but that’s okay). He was paid for his service, and he found himself tending to the boy, taking care of him and earning thanks, something foreign to him, but not unwanted. 

"I don’t know what you smell like, but I like it," the younger had said to him one night before bed, as he brushed the males hair and helped him wash up. He understood little of what was said, but the word smell was one he knew of, and like was always a good thing when don’t wasn’t there as well, so he took it as a good thing and prayed he was correct.

"Oh...thank you?", he had whispered, tilting his head down just the slightest bit and then continuing along on his way before he is suddenly spoken to in a tongue he hadn't heard in almost a year, lacking the accent and occasionally mispronounced but otherwise understandable.

"Did you under- did you get it? Or should I translate?", the other had asked, turning back to look up at him with a smile, his own eyes huge and confused.

"Its-- it's okay, I got it." A short pause and a smile before he asked in his native tongue, "How do you speak the Braavosi tongue?"

"One of our cooks is from Braavos, and he taught me a little. Our Maester helped as well." The common tongue, something he barely understands at all, but nodded anyways, to let the conversation cease. He never enjoyed talking, especially not when he couldn’t understand much. It is a long while before he is spoken to again, soft words that are so worried as he asks, "Will you stay the night with me?"

"Yes, my prince."

"I'm not a prince silly."

"Forgive me."

"You can call me that if you like."

"Okay...my prince."

Years passed, and through them friendship grew, from late night cuddles, mixed Braavosi and Common languages, jokes, and guidance, healing and watchful eyes. Soon they found themselves hiding away together, stealing kisses to more than boo boos and foreheads, and when the younger came of marriageable age, they agreed to steal away to the nights watch-- Hongbin's family had their lord, he didn’t need to be present, and so they had left to be together, both of them, even if Taekwoon should not have been allowed.

Oh, how long they were together, how long he had taken care of the boy whose heartbeat has stopped, how long he must wait to die at his side, his body hurting more than can be imagined.

It is far too long before his vision begins to spot, to turn earnestly black at his edges, and as his breaths turn more ragged, he finds himself whispering his vows, the ones to the watch that he had spoken so many times, his face turning to press against Hongbin's bloody chest.

His breath shutters to an end, and so does his life.

His watch has ended.

May his night in the sky be peaceful and long.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this chicken scratch, then know that it makes me very happy, although you don't have to say as much if you don't want. I hope your day is nice after all that angst and that you eat a good dinner/breakfast/lunch to help you feel better!!
> 
> If you want to read more of my unfinished works, you can follow me under the same name on Instagram. 
> 
> Farewell~
> 
> (also I might write a prequel for this but idkkkkk. Okie bye for real now.)


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